Closer to completion on my link-list: that's everyone who's shown up in the referrer logs lately, and everyone who's left a comment on an open entry. Apologies in advance for the names, which I hodgepodged together as best I could and occasionally humored you on (no offense meant, Mr. Thicke, your blogging more than makes up for your acting).
If I misspelled your name/made up a stupid one/missed you entirely etc., please leave a comment.
Happiness on my referrer logs today... I had no idea Suzanne had a weblog. I see from the archives that she got to see Ghoultown, one of my favorite bands, in concert. Go visit her and them. It's like a double-shot of goodness.
One of the reasons I thought I might like psychology is because my mind does work that way -- traveling at the speed of light down the mental tracks of other people, coloring in their mental world from a combination of data and imagination.
It paralyzes me a lot of the time -- someone will do something shitty to me, and my mind instantaneously puts myself in that person's shoes, sorts what I know of their environment and past, and comes up with a whole slew of reasons why that person might have done that.
It sucks, because I'm usually still very angry, but now I don't feel justified in having my anger... I'm angry at myself for still feeling it. On rare occasions, I am able to throw the overload switch and shove my sympathy in the closet while I do what needs to be done... but I can only maintain that so long. It's one reason I tend to give anyone a second (or fortieth) chance, given enough time... even people that I already know will hurt me.
It's a bad characteristic. It gets me in lots of trouble. You can't go through life ranking the needs and interests of other people ahead of yours... especially since the vast majority of people aren't doing the same thing. Sometimes, it doesn't matter if you feel sorry for them -- they're hurting you, and must be pimp-slapped.
I can say these things, but they're not internalized. If this recent attack on America has shown me anything, it's how deeply my touchy-feely hippyness is embedded in my psyche.
People just bombed the shit out of my country. Thousands of my countrymen are dead. All around me, people are reacting with rage and desire for revenge. Not only can I not share it, I'm horrified by it.
All this tragedy sparks in me is overwhelming sadness. My imagination's been working overtime populating those airplanes, the World Trade Center and the Pentagon with characters. The mothers, the fathers, the little kids. All those people, all those individual lives. Every single one overwhelming to think about -- a mindboggling collection of hopes, fears, mundane thoughts, bad impulses, too extensive to ever be understood -- then multiplied by a factor of thousands. It's as impossible to comprehend as the universe.
But how can I hate the people who killed them? They were doing what they thought their God wanted them to. Lit differently, they're martyred heroes who made the ultimate sacrifice for what they thought was right. Here in America, people shoot abortion doctors, cheer when criminals are executed, and kill people because they are gay or a different race or religion.
What you are is bad, and you deserve to die. The only thing that changes that basic concept from "terrorism" to "capital punishment" to "hate crimes" to "justice" is where you are standing.
But you know? I don't particularly want to be blown up. The area in which I live is very high on the "Good Places to Bomb in the USA" list.
I want to live. In fact, I'm fucking determined to live. I've finally figured out what I need to do to get well, and by god I want to taste what being well is like. I want to throw being well on the ground and roll around in it.
I don't want people to die, whether they be New Yorkers or Pentagon workers or flight attendants or members of the Taliban. I definitely don't want my friends and family to die, and I don't want my friends in a ground war in the middle east.
This whole thing just scares me shitless. It reminds me SO MUCH of World War I. One act of terrorism -- which, if you think about it, assassinating Archduke Ferdinand was -- and half the world is pulled in through alliances and longstanding grievances into a long, costly, grisly war that in the end accomplished nothing. Yeah, woo, we won, big woo, Germany is crushed. And look how well (and for how long) that worked out.
Apologies for lack of updates, e-mail, etc; it's been an interesting week. Monday marked the day that I gave up meat, dairy, eggs, sugar, caffeine, and all grain-based and/or starchy carbohydrates.
That's been so fun that I decided to ice the cake with a nasty cold and a scorching case of poison ivy... which I originally thought was flea bites and therefore did not hesitate to scratch and spread all over myself.
It'd be worse if I were ever awake (see caffeine, gave up Monday).
That said, I'd like to give a big shout-out to maximum-strength hydrocortisone cream, halls mentholyptus, and veganburgers, all of which have made this week much more pleasant.
This entry shall be replaced by one that doesn't suck just as soon as I'm up to the task.
Strange things going on in the dimly-lit clutter I call a brain; it's like the Story Grinch came and raided the place in the night. Not only have Arthur & Co. frozen in place, but even the little creativities I take for granted have headed for the hills... I've actually lost the ability to summon my Imaginary Friend, which I didn't know I was capable of losing.
No, I'm not insane, or at least not in that particular department; some people can't sleep without a favorite blanket, a certain stuffed animal, music playing or the presence of a certain person. Me, I have to have my Imaginary Friend. Less to explain, much easier to pack.
And when I say "imaginary friend", I don't mean that Rik Mayall follows me around sinking houseboats; when I go to sleep, I imagine that whatever person would make me feel safest if they were actually around -- whoever that may be at that time in my life -- is there guarding me while I sleep. It's a comforting ritual, one I've had for decades.
But three days ago, for the first time in my life, I went to bed and could not make the illusion happen. There was palpable emptiness there. I'd never really thought about the summoning process... I'd never had to. It had always been instantaneous before. It felt very much like calling someone on the phone... someone who was always home... and hearing it ring and ring.
Worse, it was like hearing the phone ring and ring... and knowing that person was standing above the phone staring at the Caller ID, unwilling to answer.
It's very strange... I feel like I've been dumped, and I'm shocked... as shocked as I would be if I turned on PBS just in time to see Mr. Snuffleupagus tell Big Bird to go fuck himself.
Weirder still is the perverse certainty that I know what made him leave, and that his feelings are hurt.
I don't like to be unproductively bonkers, so I've been pondering these bizzare ideas from different angles... and there's a story lurking in there somewhere, one that's throwing seeds all over the barren place where all my other ideas danced before.
What if the idea behind The Velveteen Rabbit were true? Namely, that you could love something so much that you made it real? Sort of the same concept as is touched on in American Gods and Pygmalion, but taken in a somewhat different direction.
What direction, I haven't decided yet. Have a couple I'm kicking around and will probably have more.
Here's one: what if all souls started off as imaginary friends?
Say there's a little boy named Steve. Steve's lonely, so he creates an imaginary friend named Paul who's everything he wants in a friend, everything he is not... adventurous, bold, brave, cunning, dashing. Steve plays with Paul and loves Paul and admires Paul and infuses Paul with his own life essence... until finally, Paul becomes so powerful that he's a soul in his own right. One day, Steve reaches out for Paul and Paul is gone... because a baby was born, and Paul went to be its soul. If Steve meets that baby later in life, he might find that he has an incredible affinity for that adventurous, bold, brave, cunning, dashing, person... that you could say he was everything Steve ever wanted in a friend. His soulmate, if you will.
People create all manner of imaginary friends, with all different types of personalities. Imagine that Marsha is married to Greg. Greg dies, and his soul is reincarnated... but Marsha misses Greg, and begins to dream him up to keep her company. She's creating a ghost of Greg... not Greg himself, but a reasonable facsimile thereof. If Marsha outlives Greg long enough to come to love and believe in that ghost utterly, she's created another version of Greg that can then go on to inhabit a body himself.
Okay. Imagine all the girls (and boys, no cause to be sexist) in the world who dream of a life with Justin Timberlake. Perhaps some of them go so far as to pretend Justin Timberlake is there. Well, every one of these is creating a little, whispy, Timberlake-flavored soul.
Now suppose one of them starts dating the basketball player down the street and forgets all about her earlier crush. There's a tiny speck of soul-stuff there, desperate and hungry for more love and belief, enough to make it real. Maybe it will find another person to believe in it. Maybe it will be grown by someone else into something completely different. Maybe it will become a voice in someone's head, or an idea someone has walking down the street one day... maybe it will just fade away into nothingness.
But imagine if some girls never got over it, never forgot. I'll switch time periods to make the idea easier. Of all the millions of girls in love with Elvis Presley, some never quit loving him, never quit dreaming about him... and those girls/women made 200 slightly-different versions of Elvis Presley who went on to be born. Maybe one's a goat-herder now; another's a midwestern housewife, another's a medicine man, maybe 50 are Elvis impersonators, called by some impulse they cannot explain.
Another version requires a lot more belief and love to make an imaginary friend real... and they actually do become real. In this version, the former imaginary friends just pop into existence as a living, breathing being... an amnesiac.
In this version, people would constantly be seeing Elvis at the 7-11 because there actually are walking, talking versions of Elvis Presley wandering around in confusion.
Or... slightly different from #2... the former imaginary friends pop into existence as living, breathing beings... with a full and complete memory. They assimilate into society however they can... whether by buying an identity on the black market, *pretending* to be an amnesiac, or what have you.
Here's the kicker: maybe they love the people who created them just as much as they are loved, and maybe they don't.
Say Gordon really hates his cubemate, Betsy. Betsy's gorgeous and arrogant and won't give him the time of day... so Gordon creates fantasy-Betsy, who has Betsy's personality but whom he tortures and humiliates in his mind.
Once Betsy were real, Betsy would hate Gordon... not only with the hatred the Real Betsy had for Gordon, but with the hatred of a woman who'd been subjugated and hurt by a man she despised. Betsy might very well want to kill Gordon, or get some other form of vengeance.
Or say Little Timmy feels helpless and afraid... so he invents a pirate-man, Big Bad Jack, who's cunning and violent and who takes exquisite vengeance on anyone who hurts Little Timmy. This is great when it's all inside Timmy's head... but once Big Bad Jack is real, he'd be a serious menace to society... a coldblooded killer who's psychotically possessive of Timmy. What would Big Bad Jack do to a girl who dumped Timmy, or a boss that fired him? Or Timmy, when Timmy turned on him?
Or say Nancy's a lonely lady, and makes up some perfect, dashing, won't-take-no-for-an-answer guy who loves her utterly. Again, this is great inside her head... she can turn him off or on. Once out, though... major stalker.
Well, it's late as all hell, so I'm gonna go lay down (all alone, sigh) and think on this some more...
If you want to visit Chattanooga, I really don't recommend staying with me. I'll act all nice and maybe I'll even lure you into believing that we're going to do fun, exciting things. It's all a lie, though. The airline will lose your luggage, my friends will force you to watch Zappa documentaries, and just when you get all excited because you're FINALLY leaving the apartment, you'll find yourself digging a grave in the Georgia heat.
Poor Matthew.
We did go see The Nexus Of The Universe, though, even if we had very different experiences. Compared to Matthew, I am a drooling moron, so the conversation went a little bit like this:
Matthew: Doesn't this remind you of big word's theory of big word? How the big word and the big word combine into a big wordbig word? In fact, that puts me in mind of book Meghan has never heard of by big word. You remember him -- he also wrote book Meghan has never heard of, book Meghan has never heard of, and book Meghan has never heard of.
Meghan: Look! Gnomes in day-glo pants are funny!
If you've never been to The Nexus Of The Universe, (known to some as Rock City), let me fail to describe it to you: take one rock-formation-studded mountaintop of breathtaking beauty, put some very pretty stone paths and plants in it, then fuck the whole thing up by deciding to add demonic-looking painted gnomes, black lights, Barbies with glued-on wings hanging from string, and canned music of imps singing nursery rhymes.
There is really no way to describe the horror. Matt and I were walking through the very pretty part with the plants and the rock formations, and I truly lacked the words to prepare him for what was to come.
They start you off slow, see. You do the fat-man's-squeeze and the mushroom rock, you see the seven states and the pretty waterfall, and then they'll pop a gnome in. Just one gnome, and it's not glowing... so you're lulled into a false sense of security.
Turn a corner and there's more gnomes, slightly more evil-looking, but again, not glowing or moving. They're forever still, mining things behind an iron fence... which is a bit disturbing, but you can deal, right?
Turn another corner, and you're in hell.
Pupilless glowing gnomes tucked in rock alcoves, their carved faces frozen in a rictus of pain as they fish, or stare blankly at wooden ducks, or simply pulse in the flickering light. Scenes from nursery rhymes, reenacted by wooden demons. Each black-lit tableau frozen in time, each character staring at you as if measuring how deeply to thrust the knife, engaged in gross parodies of childhood tales that always border vaguely on the perverse. Hansel's hand is in a very strange place on Gretel... the old woman in the shoe looks just a bit too gleeful to be spanking the man-sized child on her lap.
And all the while, there's the music, an endless looping tape straight out of your nightmares. You're deep in a cave within the earth trapped in a wasteland of vomitous colors and incestuous mad little wooden men.
And then... oh, god! The animatronics start. The butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker bob queasily for eternity in a shifting sea of sheeting. The candlestick maker stares directly at you, pleading for release, his face chipped by time so that a single black tear falls forever from his eye.
And finally, finally, you are out... plunged from glowing darkness into the cold light commerce of the giftshop, where Rock City is imprinted on everything from sheriff's badges to candy to frightening t-shirts... and, most disturbingly, implements for the torture of small children.
For girls who fib And boys who tattle There is always Grandma's paddle! SEE ROCK CITY!
I am not kidding. Gaily-painted rhymes in heartwarming pink paint with dotties... ON A CHILD-BOSHER. A heart-shaped child-bosher, no less.
I fully expect Matthew to run screaming back to San Francisco at any moment.
Since all my friends started doing the Happy Couple Hookup, I've given a bit more thought to what sort of person I would want to date once I leave my Antisexual period. Jason and I watched a bit of a ridiculous dating show yesterday, and on it they asked some giggling moronic chick to describe her perfect man. Stupid show. Intriguing question.
And since everything interesting going on in my life is unsuitable for mention on the Internet, I thought I'd give a nice, musing essay a go. So: my perfect man. Maybe someday I'll dig up the old "50 Ways To Make Meghan Putty In Your Hands" entry and start a little Meghan-Manual.
Funny, smart, and their intoxicating combination, witty. Not so much smarter than me that I'm left feeling inferior all the time, though... ideally, just about even-steven. Different areas would be nice, with some common ground in there. He kicks my ass in some areas, I beat him dead in others, some things we make a great team on.
He's not cool. So important. He has a sense of decorum -- he doesn't like to do things that will embarrass, annoy or inconvenience other people, even strangers -- but beyond that, he can see past what other people think. He has fun even if he looks like an idiot doing it. He'll try things he's not good at yet. He trusts me enough to love him to be able to fall down and say the wrong thing in front of me. He can be quite silly. He doesn't mind that I'm more self-conscious than he is. If he had an AD&D alignment, it would be neutral good.
He loves to read. He loves his computer. He's attracted to weird, quirky things and weird, quirky people. He realizes what the world is and accepts it, but he holds himself to a higher standard of honor and rightness. He's a closet romantic, creative and full of dreams. Humor is his prime defense mechanism. He's a generally happy person, but he does have a dark side... he's a bit warped. He is amused rather than horrified by some of the sick things that come out of my mouth.
He notices things. If he comes home and I've cleaned, he notices and says something nice about it. If I'm unusually quiet, he notices and asks if something's wrong.
He's not big on public displays of affection... instead, he messes with me. He'll grab my butt when no one's looking and look away innocently when I whirl around. He'll hold my hand in the movie theater or kiss the top of my head. Even though we don't glom all over each other in public, everyone who knows him even a little bit knows that I'm his girlfriend. No one, and I do mean NO ONE, thinks I am his sister for more than thirty seconds unless we happen to look exactly alike.
He likes animals and small children. If a small child pukes on him, he laughs and cleans it up. He likes dogs the best, but cats are okay. When he does get a pet, he spoils it rotten, and he gives it some preposterous, ironic name like "Sir Thalamus Rex of Meronvingia" and calls it "Rex".
He does not work out. Occasionally he thinks about working out, and maybe even plans to work out... he may even go once or twice, but there are way more interesting things to do. He does not have a six-pack. His biceps do not bulge. He isn't skinny, either. A bear hug from him actually feels like one. He's big and beefy and warm and hairy. If he wanted to pick me up (and he does), it would not be a problem for him. I can sleep on him without crushing his ribcage.
He's gentle, though. About most things, anyway. He's a pacifist at heart and will avoid getting in a fight whenever possible. If someone hurts me, he offers to kill them and doesn't mean it. When he sees them later, it is very difficult for him to be polite to them, but he manages.
His hair is the stuff on his head. He cuts it off every so often or shoves it in a ponytail. If it falls out, he accepts it with grace. If he talks about his hair, it's because he's on his way to the barber, is thinking about dyeing it purple, or it's on fire.
He has beautiful, strong, big hands and a warm, deep voice. His eyes are some color and tend to twinkle with mischief or smoulder with dark promises. Preferably, they're behind a pair of glasses.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, glasses.
He likes to come up behind me when I'm cooking, mold his body against mine, brush my hair away and kiss my neck. He likes to swoop me up and carry me in the bedroom, or spontaneously crush me against a wall and have his wicked way with me.
He makes noise in bed so I know if I'm doing stuff right.
He likes to lay in bed or on the couch and read, not talking, just together.
He thinks my quirks are adorable. He finds me irresistably sexy. The strangest little things about me turn him on. If he passes someone in the mall wearing my perfume, he gets a little bit googly inside. I'm one of his best friends. Sometimes he'll call me at random in the middle of the day just to tell me something cool he heard or something neat that happened to him. Then he'll hang up the phone, because it is a communication tool and not a hobby.
He can't stand to see me cry... unless it's at a phone commercial or something. Then he thinks it's sort of endearing.
He has his own life. I am a big bonus, but not the foundation. He still wants to hang out with his friends and do his hobbies, and he doesn't mind if I'm the same way. Our friends still see us just as much as they did before we started to date. My friends like him. His friends like me. All of our friends are glad we're together, because we're much happier now.
He would not cheat on me ever ever ever ever ever even a little bit. He could call me at 3 a.m. and tell me that he was about to go naked mud-wrestle with the Swedish Bikini Team, and I could tell him to have a nice time and go right back to sleep, because I trusted him that much.
Well... I could probably go on for days, but I need to go up to my Mom's house. So perhaps I'll continue this later. Meanwhile, why not leave a comment and tell me about your perfect man/woman? (Real or made-up, I don't discriminate.)
Oh... and if you're one of my ex-boyfriends, and you want to post something about how you were just like this and I screamed at you all the time, feel free to do that, too...
It would have to be the Antichrist, because I don't imagine I'm the sort of vessel that God would stuff Our Lord and Savior up. And it can't be a real baby, because you have to have sex to get one of those, or so I'm told.
Actually, that's been one of the very nicest bits about being Antisexual. Whatever little gremlin runs my uterus has a tendency to drink on the job... I've had periods for nine months straight, periods that are weeks, even months late, periods that hopscotch around. When I was a teenager, this didn't bother me too much... but once I became sexually active, it was a constant source of stress. I'd be one week, two weeks, three weeks late... I was a nail-biting fixture in the pregnancy test aisle.
But now? Ahhhhhh. Antisexual. Uncle Red can go on vacation for months at a time and I just don't give a damn. It's truly refreshing -- I hadn't realized how much cognitive closet space I'd allotted to that fear before I didn't have to have it anymore.
The purpose of those two nasty paragraphs of detail was so that none of you will actually worry when I tell you that I'm two or three weeks late. I wouldn't even be noticing it to joke about it except that I've been nauseated by everything lately... me, (in)famous for my iron stomach.
I say infamous, because I'm one of those annoying people (you probably know a few) who loves to gross other people out... the slightly older version of the kid who used to eat almost anything on a dare. I used to eat dinner in Forensic Anthropology class. We'd be sitting there watching slides of maggot-riddled, decomposing corpses, and I'd be happily chowing down on a sandwich. I watched a television show about someone who'd made pate out of their placenta and fed it to their dinner guests...everyone who watched it with me (and everyone I told about it) was scarred and horrified. I thought it was hilarious. I used to carry my pet rats around in my bra... they'd crap on me and I'd calmly fish it out and throw it away. Emptying bedpans, lancing boils, cleaning up still-warm vomit... I'm the one you wanna call.
But in the past few weeks... ugh. I first noticed it when I was putting the cat's heartworm preventative in their food... just the smell of it made me almost vomit. I kept having to walk away from the bowls I was filling and breathe different air. It wasn't a bad smell or a gross smell... the stuff is chocolate-flavored, apparently... but something about it just made me retch.
And then Mom went to the Farmer's Market and came back with a bushel of corn, which she asked me to shuck for her. No problem. I grab the first ear, rip the green part back...
... throw the ear of corn down, and start to scream and babble.
Corn worms. No big deal, right? Not at that moment. The whole top third of the ear was covered in them... tiny little maggoty squirmy white things... and the kernels they'd already been at work on were shriveled and filled with worm poo. The entire top of the ear was worm-infested, wriggly poo.
Mom is not used to me screaming and babbling, so she came to see what was going on. I was hyperventilating, but I finally managed to get across what the problem was.
"It's corn worms," Mom said, perplexed. "Corn has worms. You know this. What's your problem? For God's sake..."
That hurt my pride, so I resolutely grabbed a different ear of corn. Shucked it, screamed again, threw it down again. More worms. Every single ear of the entire bushel was infested with worms. By this time I'd started doing the disgusted St. Vitus dance, and mom grabbed the corn in annoyance.
"I'll do it," she spat, looking at me scornfully while I shrank away from the basket of corn, completely convinced in that moment that the corn-worms could jump across the room and bite me.
I am shivering uncontrollably just typing this story. In fact, lately you can just say the word "worm" to me and I will shimmy obligingly. This is an improvement over last week, when all you had to say was "corn".
Don't know if I'm glowing, but my lustpillows sorta hurt and I'm having strange little food cravings/revulsions, too. I ate an entire container of hummus (don't worry, I didn't make it) by myself a few days ago. The past few days, the craving has been for a ridiculously rare chunk of meat... I think I'm actually craving the blood more than the meat. But mention some nice, normal, appetizing food to me... like "cookie" or "chocolate" or "pineapple"... and I'm revolted to my core. I made myself sick typing that.
Watching an hour of BBC home and garden improvement shows is kind of like worthwhile research. At least I got to see Wales, eh?
I really think all American home and garden improvement shows (with the exception of Christopher Lowell) should be replaced with their British counterparts. The 'witty banter' on British home and garden improvement shows is actually witty... I laughed out loud all the way through a garden show.
And what a revolution... instead of getting whispy, bulbous-breasted ex-Miss-Americas in garden gloves that match their pantsuits to host these things, they have people who dress in nasty work clothes and can actually do the work... and who snort and sulk and mock each other while their sinewy muscles ripple.
BBC America is rapidly becoming my favorite channel. At night, when they've run out of things to do, they run Blackadder and Monty Python re-runs instead of infomercials.
Speaking of TV, I'll be getting the second half of Mists of Avalon back from Ardyce's mom tonight or tomorrow... so hopefully I'll be able to have the copies in the mail by Monday.
I should probably go get showered and things, but I'm procrastinating... I have a "girls night out" in two hours that I'm dreading a bit. We're going to drink wine and giggle about boys and go dancing. It wouldn't be quite so bad, except that the guys organized a "boys night out" to match... and they're going to do cool things like burn stuff. I want to burn stuff. I tried to suggest burning stuff as an evening option to Kristy, but she insisted that we needed to do girl things. I told her we could burn girl things. I think I've been outvoted, though.
So dancing it is, although I bet you that at least fifteen minutes of that will be me and Ardyce sitting outside whatever dance club smoking and bemoaning that we're not out burning stuff.
I really need to increase the monetary amount of my bets, or at least get into a more lucrative genre of the market. If I spent a quarter as much time analyzing horses as I do noting the personality quirks and resultant patterns of behavior of the people I know, I'd be a Rich Person. I did win a dollar this week, though, so the psychology degree has finally paid off. I'd be a even richer if I'd placed bets on a lot of other things instead of just warning people that they were about to happen.
Maybe I should just scribble a hyphen on my degree and go into formal practice. Instead of being Meghan O'Hara, Psychologist... I could be Meghan O'Hara, Psycho-ologist. Kind of like an astrologist, only with fewer diagrams. Bring me your psycho, let me observe them, and then I'll tell you what they're going to do. I could even throw in some nifty jargon and set up a 1-900 number. I do a fair-to-middling Miss Cleo impersonation anyway.
"Ah, yes... your boyfriend has Mercury in the House of Waffling, so he's not going to call you for a month and then show up freaked out because he can't live without you and he's heard you've been spending a lot of time with Stefan. And... hmm... I've just pulled the "Kootyolwasys" card, so you probably ought to change your home number and get radical plastic surgery."
Anyway, I must go figure out what oversized shirt and ankle-length skirt best scream "Dancing Mama!", so I must go...
I probably will post an excerpt here at some point, and thanks for asking. Not quite yet, though... I'm too afraid it sucks. Actually, I'm pretty convinced it sucks. The good thing is that I don't seem to be too downhearted by how much I think it sucks... I've got this nice, "well, so it sucks, it's the first draft" attitude I've never been able to have about my writing before. Hopefully this means that *this* book won't end up with the circular file along with everything else I've ever thrown out the window in frustration that I'm not Stephen King.
It's getting harder, though. My superstitious mind is convinced that this is because my Mom wouldn't let me get my necessary eighteen hours of sleep today... and my logical mind wants to hit it with a rock. Still, I've been acting like a batter on a hot streak... hadn't left my mom's house until errands this morning, hadn't changed my routine at all... afraid of losing the muse that doesn't visit me all that often. If I wore socks, I'd be wearing the same pair.
In a way, the diary's almost the problem -- I've spent six years now writing almost nothing but casual, conversational short essays. Other formats freak me out now -- and if I don't watch myself, my poem or short story or technical paper will turn into a casual, conversational short essay before I've even noticed it.
The dialogue's hard, too, and that's a little surprising -- dialogue was one of those things I was always pretty good at. Shot myself in the foot on that one when I picked the time period, though... Lancelot can't tell someone to go f**k themselves or exclaim that something really bites.
That, and I *still* suck at description. I guess that's what I get for ruthlessly skipping over it in almost every book I've ever read. I've never really cared what dress someone was wearing or what the sea smelled like or the soft lute players in the background... I always wanted to know what they were *doing*. I finally decided to not worry about it, that I'd go back with the second draft and add lots o' loverly description.
But, you know, it's the fifth century. I may not *want* to describe it too much.
Fleas leaped gaily off Lancelot's dirt-encrusted skin as he smiled, revealing at least four remaining rotten teeth. He leaned closer, and Gwenhwyfar could feel his rancid breath on her neck. She quivered in delight as he ran his fingers across her oily, pockmarked skin, lingering seductively on her festering boil. She could smell the pigs in the yard, mingling deliciously with Lance's stale sweat. She loved him like this, just before his yearly bath -- he never smelled so much like her own beloved Lancelot.
Mmm-mmm!
Well, I've been at the computer so long I'm starting to look a little Dark Ages myself... so I'm gonna go take a shower.
Did a bit of a redesign, as you probably noticed... more proof that I should not be allowed unlimited, all-night access to my mother's copy of Photoshop.
The infoweb's not hooked back up, and none of the links on the right work yet, but hey... it's got happy squirrels. At any rate, I'm fond of it, even if my little rodent's jauntily angled cigarette came out looking rather like she's been shot in the neck with a ballpoint.
Still having an inordinately kickass week, enjoying my remaining Golden Days of unemployment before I have to go be a productive member of society again. I spent all day yesterday in the apartment sittin' on my butt, gorging on clementines, and making mix CD's for people. I should have majored in "wastrel"... I am truly, truly talented at it.
Granted, I was technically productive today, since I spent all day on Mom's presentation... but I don't think it really counts as "work" when you're moving crap around in Photoshop while some nice lady hovers around refilling your tea, bringing you cigarettes, and setting steaming plates of shrimp in front of you.
I also discovered last night that it really is true ... men lust after psychos.
I was talking to Scott and Nathan about pranks, and I ended up telling them the story of something I'd done Freshman year of high school. I'd been angry at a girl I knew for a love-related offense... and we just happened to be dissecting a fetal pig in biology class that day. Long story short, she ended up getting gift-wrapped relevant pig parts with a special little note.
I told them the story, blushing with embarrassment at what a nutty bitch I'd been, and looked up... to find Scott staring at me with naked lust.
"You... did that?" he whispered.
"Yeah, I know, it's horrible..."
"I would have followed you around with puppy-dog eyes worshipping you the entire rest of the year."
"You... what??"
Years of trying to make guys like me. Years spent in agonized consideration of what qualities I lacked. Years of trying to be nicer, wittier, sweeter, more understanding, skinnier, smarter, sexier, funnier. Dyeing my hair, living on lettuce sandwiches, trying to come up with interesting conversational topics.
I shove a dripping box of pig-goo at a fellow fourteen-year-old, and NOW I'm hot?
It's like finding out that I had the ability to go back to Kansas any time I wanted, just by clicking my purty red shoes together. I have at least 20 psycho impulses per day. I just don't act on any of them.
All the power in the world has been mine all along! Muahahahahaaaaa!!
Still pretty stoopidhappy, which has been enjoyable as hell. It appears, for the moment at least, that I am not depressable.
Things are good, though. People are getting in all these little happy couples. It pleases The Meghan. The Meghan approves. And yeah, some crappy things are happening -- but either they're not all that crappy, I knew they were coming and they're just there to be dealt with, or I'm pretty sure they're going to work themselves out.
Last night was the Fourth of July party -- a very mellow, indoor affair as it was pouring outside -- and I ended up spending the night at Ardyce's to allow my roommate and his awesome new woman to get their freak on at the apartment.
Had a really great day today. Went out for lunch, went over to Scott and Nathan's for a while... and afterwards, Ardyce and I somehow got into a conversation about how southern people don't put epitaphs on their gravestones the way northern people do... which segued into a long conversation about Funerals I Have Known...
Meghan: I just want a simple funeral. Ardyce: Exactly. Simple, but cool. Meghan: And I definitely *don't* want a visitation. Ardyce: Yeah, those suck. Meghan: I tell you, when I get married...
:: we look at each other ::
Meghan: Did I just say "get married" instead of "die"?
:: we laugh for fifteen minutes ::
Ardyce: Yoooooou have issuuuuuues!!! Meghan: You wanna go to the graveyard? Ardyce: And visit all the married people?
Which is how we ended up spending our afternoon driving and walking through the cemetery in a vain attempt to locate any of my relatives, one of our old friends, and the space that I'll be put in when I die (the office that gives you maps to your people was closed).
Morbid a cruisin' spot as it is, it's an incredibly beautiful cemetery -- *very* old, with rolling hills, huge shady trees, and winding, eroded roads. It's peaceful there; weird as it was to be twenty-four and merrily walking through the land where my body will eventually rot, it was almost like visiting the construction site where your house will be built. For all I know, I could have walked over my own grave today. That's kind of cool. And almost my whole family's there... "this is where my grandfather lives now". Very strange... but in a neat, "the circle is complete" kind of way.
And if I can walk through a graveyard looking for my own grave and not get depressed... you know I'm doing okay.
That got me thinking a bit about what epitaph I'd want on my tombstone. I haven't examined the matter all that deeply, but so far, I've come up with two I like:
"Okay... NOW I'm living in the past!"
"Here Lies Meghan O Laid to Rest by Marlboro"
And, of course, there's always what my great-aunt always said she wanted on her tombstone... "I Told You I Was Sick".
Oh, man... got some crappy news today. Really crappy. I'm so flingin-flangin' mad right now that I feel as if any moment, I will turn bright green and be strangely compelled to rip off my shirt.
Unfortunately, I'm *not* the Incredible Hulk... I'm a pasty, overweight nerd with no martial skills whatsoever, and even if I did that, people would just point and laugh. I'm powerless, castrated even further by my unwillingness to do anything rash/extreme/underhanded/sneaky/illegal/immoral.
I'm the long-diluted descendant of one of the mightiest of the Irish kings... and I swear, some of that is lurking around in me (Jung would be so proud). I have this need to grab something hefty and smite, smite, smite until the fool who threatened my clan is lying in an unrecognizable heap, brains soaking into the peat.
I could plant my big-ass Irish King foot atop their broken nose and bellow incoherently, then go get drunk, write some poetry, and speak badly of the English. Or maybe have Michael Flatley Riverdance on their head. I haven't really worked this all out yet.
